


A Little Peace

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Brief discussion of miscarriage and child death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 00:40:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1920177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jorah Mormont, the best father who never had children.</p>
<p>A beginning, a middle, an end and coming full circle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Peace

_i._

The yard was covered in a layer of fresh snow, snow that had arrived on the previous evening just a few hours before their visitors from Bear Island. The hour was still early but Lady Lyarra Stark stepped carefully out into the frigid air, her youngest babe Lyanna cradled in her arms. Just one name day old, Lyanna had already proven herself a Stark - nothing calmed her more than a walk outside, no matter the weather, no matter the time. She had been crying since dawn but was quiet now, peeking out from the bundles of fur she was wrapped in.

Lyarra eyed the snow critically, noting three sets of tracks leading away from the main door and leading towards the Godswood. Smiling, she followed the prints slowly, listening to Lyanna's small noises of contentment. 

She heard them before she saw them, two chattering small voices and a quieter, deeper one. Not wanting to interrupt the game, she crept quietly into the woods and concealed herself behind a tree. 

The three boys played; her sons, Brandon and Ned, and the Mormont boy, Jorah. Brandon was riding on Jorah's back, laughing, as Ned threw snowballs at them. Jorah was smiling too, the most at ease she had ever seen him, and she resolved to watch quietly.

Lyanna, on the other hand, had different ideas after spotting her brothers.

"Ned!" she squealed, "Ned, Ned, Ned!"

All three boys turned to look then, Jorah blushing when he saw Lyarra step out from her hiding place. Brandon scrambled down from the older boy's back, pushing his dark hair back from his forehead. He was seven name days old, a full six years younger than the Mormont boy, but Lyarra knew he would have been the instigator of this little game. When Brandon wanted something, no one had the power to resist. 

"Mama," he grinned, "Have you and Lya come to play too?"

"We have not," she said firmly, reaching out to stroke Ned's hair as he crept to her side, "Although I am pleased to see you have managed to dress yourselves appropriately for the weather, for once."

"Jorah made us," Brandon said off-handedly as he reached out for Lyanna, "He wouldn't let us out until he had tied our boots for us."

"Well, I'm pleased to know that some young men can think sensibly," Lyarra handed Lyanna to her brother, and turned her attention to Jorah, who blushed more and averted his eyes. 

He was an awkward thing, had been since the day he was old enough to walk, and his recent growth spurt had only served to make him more aware of his own body and his size in comparison to those around him. He always seemed to be trying to fold in on himself.

"Jorah," Lyarra said gently, "Good morning."

He dragged his eyes from the ground and met her gaze, just for a moment. He would never be a good looking boy, and if his father was any example, he would not be a handsome man, but he had his mother's beautiful dark eyes and when he could be persuaded to smile, his face lit up. He was so polite too, gentle even, not so gruff as the sons of Northern lords tended to be, and Lyarra knew they had his mother to thank for that too. Jeor and Jorah alike missed her so terribly, the wife and mother who had died six years before and left them adrift. Now, on the cusp of manhood, Jorah needed his mother more than ever before and it was so, so sad that he was without one.

"Good morning, Lady Stark. I - I trust you slept well?"

"I did, thank you. At least until Lyanna decided the time had come for me to wake."

He smiled then, as had been her intention.

"Mama," Brandon interrupted, "Mama, is it time for breakfast yet? I'm hungry, and so are Ned and Jorah."

"Perhaps," she nodded, "Shall we all go and see?"

"Yes!" Brandon crowed, and went on ahead, bouncing Lyanna in his arms. Lyarra turned to follow him, and heard Jorah mutter to Ned behind her. Glancing behind, she saw Ned clamber onto one of the large stones by the pond and climb onto Jorah's back for the a ride back to the castle.

"I - I promised him a turn," Jorah murmured, when Lyarra raised her eyebrows at them, "After Brandon. It's Ned's turn."

Her youngest son, clinging securely to Jorah's back, peered over the older boy's shoulder and smiled one of his own rare smiles. 

Two special smiles in one morning. It was looking to be a wonderful day already. 

 

_ii._

Maege's screams began early in the morning, soon after Jeor heard the maids racing along the corridor and calling for the maester. He did not rush to his sister's side; rather he sat up in bed and reached for the book he had been reading the night before. The cries came infrequently at first, one every quarter hour or so, and he was able to read without disturbance and finish the book before he got up to dress. Maege still screamed, lusty and strong, and he knew she would not like him to check on her. His sister was perfectly capable of birthing a child without the aid of the maester and the maids who already fluttered around her - she did not need him watching too, waiting for his first niece or nephew to make their appearance. The babe would come soon enough.

The hour was still early as he left his chamber, the smell of breakfast drifting up from the hall down below. He had to pass Maege's room to reach the stairs, and as he rounded the corner he found Jorah hovering outside of her door, a look of barely concealed terror on his face. He turned to look at his father, eyes wide as his aunt let rip with a particularly loud scream. He was only half dressed, in shirt and breeches, his hair unbrushed and shirt hanging undone.

"Father," he said, "Do all women scream so when they birth a child?"

Jeor chuckled. For all that his son was a man now, seventeen and still growing, there was so much that he did not know. 

"They do," Jeor nodded, "This is entirely normal, boy. Entirely normal."

"She isn't - in pain? She woke me up, with her screams."

"She's in pain enough, Jorah. But that is childbirth and our women must suffer it all the same."

Jorah was pale, and he twitched at the sound of Maege's voice, full of tears, berating the maester for some mistake she had percieved. Jeor chuckled again - his sister was well enough if she could still criticise poor Owayne so. He reached out and placed a firm hand under Jorah's elbow.

"Come, my boy. The babe will come when it is good and ready and there is nothing we can do to help it."

Jorah allowed himself to be pulled away, like a little child being taken to bed, but he turned to look one more time at his aunt's doorway before they descended the stairs. 

Later that morning, a morning in which Jeor had forced his son to go out for a ride in the fear that he would in fact try and spend the whole time outside of the birthing room, an exhausted Maester Owayne came to tell them that Lady Maege had given birth to a healthy daughter. 

"Come," Jeor smiled, "Now we will be welcome."

Jorah followed him meekly, seeming nervous to be going now, and he hovered in the doorway to the chamber. Jeor ignored him for the moment, his eyes only for his sister and the bundle in her arms.

"Owayne says the girl is well," Jeor sat on the side of the bed and held out his arms, "May I hold her?"

"Of course," Maege shrugged, handing him the bundle, "A stubborn little thing. A Mormont already."

He smiled down at the tiny red face, the face that all babes seemed to have in the early hours of their lives. He remembered Jorah looking much the same, dark haired and frowning. He felt a movement at his elbow and turned to see his son had crept into the room at last.

"A fine cousin, you have now, nephew," Maege grinned, her sweat matted hair falling around her face as she shook her head, "Not a boy but a fighter nonetheless. Will you teach her? Will you be her brother?"

Silently, Jorah nodded, his eyes fixed on the girl's face. Eventually, he spoke.

"Can - can I hold her?"

At Maege's nod, Jeor handed the child to his son. Jorah copied how he had held her, cradling her head in the crook of his elbow and one of his slow, reluctant smiles spread over his face as she yawned and settled deeper into her blankets. 

"Does she have a name yet?"

"Dacey," Maege yawned herself, "After your great grandmother."

"Dacey," Jorah repeated, "Of the House Mormont. Welcome little cousin."

 

_iii._

The fire roared in the hall, built high to fight the cold that seeped in through the walls. Maege sat curled in her chair, cradling baby Lyra against her breast. The child sucked lustily, only a month old, but strong and wilful like her sisters. Dacey and Alysane played on the floor with the pups, laughing and rolling on the bearskin rug. The girls laughed and the pups squealed, all of them too young to notice the dark mood that had settled over the castle that morning. 

Alana Glover had gone into labour that morning and she still laboured now, hours later. Jorah had not left the corridor outside the chamber all day, despite Jeor's best attempts to pull his son away. Alana had lost a child the year before, a child who had barely taken one breath in the world before she died in the maester's arms. 

Alana had cried for days afterwards, despite all Maege tried to do to comfort her. She was not used to the tears of other women.

Jorah had seemed in shock, quieter than usual and even more brooding. Maege remembered coming across them, late at night a few days after the babe died. They had been standing outside of Alana's chamber, half cast in shadow. Jorah had his arms wrapped around his tiny doll of a wife, who sobbed into his chest. He had heard his aunt and turned, a look of utter desperation on his face, pleading with her. He had no idea of what to do, anymore than Maege did. At that moment, Maege had wished Jeor's sweet wife, Jorah's sweet mother, still lived. She would have known what to say. 

The door to the hall swung open and Jeor marched in, shaking snow from his hair. Alysane ran to him and he swept her up in his arms, kissing her forehead.

"Any news?" he growled, coming to sit beside his sister.

"None," Maege adjusted her cloak around her and lifted Lyra to burp her, "I'm sure we will hear-"

The door creaked again and Jorah was framed in the doorway. The slump of his shoulders answered every question Maege could feel rising on her lips.

Jeor had never been as perceptive as she.

"So boy, what news?" he asked, rising to his feet.

"Jeor-" Maege said softly, trying to catch his arm and missing by a fraction.

Jorah's mouth worked silently as he stepped into the room, his eyes rimmed in red. He had been weeping, Maege noted dully. He had not wept the last time the babe had died.

"The boy is dead," he rumbled eventually, "The maester said he never lived."

"Oh Jorah, I'm sorry," Jeor sank into his chair, "My boy, I am so sorry."

Maege gazed up at her nephew, twenty four name days old and as lost now as a child in the forest, scared of the dark.

"How is Alana?" she asked, as gently as she knew how.

"Sleeping. She does not yet know. The maester said he would tell her when she wakes. I - I don't think I can -"

Perhaps she was able to sense the sorrow emanting from her cousin, or perhaps she was going to cry anyway, but Lyra chose that moment to begin wailing, her tiny face screwed up as she beat her fists against the blanket she was swaddled in. Jorah jumped as though he had been scalded and sucked in a breath.

"Keep her quiet, can't you?" he shouted, "Just shut her up."

In the silence that followed, Lyra only cried more and Alysane, who had crawled onto Jeor's lap, began to do so too. Before anyone could say a word, Jorah had blushed a deep red and a sound, close to a ragged sob, tore from his throat.

"I'm sorry. Forgive me, please."

He fled from the room, leaving the door hanging open behind him. A cold breeze whistled in and Dacey, young still but clever with it, went to close the door. She came back to fire and eyed her mother carefully.

"Why is Jorah sad? What happened? Why did he shout at Lyra?"

"Oh my girl," Maege shook her head, noting her brother's shining eyes and, to her surprise, feeling tears in her own, "There will be no new babe for you to play with. Not this time."

 

_iv._

The child was silent, her large dark eyes looking even bigger when set in such a painfully thin face. The girl was one of the few children left in the Khalasar, one of the few who had proved strong enough to fight the demons of hunger and thirst that had struck them down in the middle of the Red Waste.

She was sat besides her mother now, a young woman who was weak with lack of nourishment and who was lying half concious on the burning sand. Daenerys stopped for a moment to stroke the girl's hair and whisper a few words to her, but there was nothing she could do. The riders had left days ago and, so far, none had returned. Another horse had died that morning, so there was a little food at least, but the water was almost gone and they could not hold out for much longer. Daenerys did not need to tell her people this. She saw it in their faces, in their downcast eyes. They would die here, every single one of them, and none would mourn them. 

Like a shadow, Jorah stopped behind her when she bent down to the child. He followed her everywhere now, watching her with ill disguised worry. She should have found his constant presence an irritation but she did not have the strength to do so - his silent support was the only thing she had left out here and she clung to it.

The girl's mother moaned and turned over, away from her daughter, burrowing into her sleeping mat. At this act, one which the child seemed to take offence at despite the fact none was intended, she began to cry. Daenerys was surprised she had the stength to do so, but then the children who still lived had shown a remarkable resiliance, more so than the adults who surrounded them. 

"Come now," Daenerys began to kneel besides the girl but she was beaten to her by Jorah, who leaned down and swept the girl up into his arms.

"Don't cry, sweet thing," he murmured in Dothraki, just loud enough for Daenerys to hear him, "Don't cry now."

He began to walk slowly up and down, rocking the girl, and talking to her quietly. Eventually the child settled but then she pressed her face into his neck and sobbed again.

"I'm thirsty, Jorah the Andal. I'm so thirsty."

A twinge of some pained expression crossed Jorah's face and he caught Daenerys' eye before turning around and striding towards his tent. Daenerys knew what he intended to do. She followed with half a mind to stop him but was too late. He was handing his flask to the girl, his entire meagre ration of water for that day, and watched as she drank it gratefully, draining the whole thing in seconds. 

He smiled, one of his special smiles, and smoothed the girl's hair.

"Is that a little better?"

"Yes," the girl smiled back, "Much better, Jorah the Andal."

And then she was gone, back to her mother with almost a skip in her step.

"You will regret that later," Daenerys chided him gently, "You yourself explained the importance of rationing to me."

"Yes, I did," Jorah was watching the girl and he was still half smiling, "But I do not think I will regret it. Not today."

 

_v._

Samwell Tarly had changed since the day when he first was dragged before the Dragon Queen, trembling and sweating but determined that she would hear what he had to say. He'd cringed under her gaze, eyed Jorah, Ser Barristan and Tyrion Lannister with barely concealed surprise, and told her in a shaking voice of the Wall and the force that threatened to overwhelm first it and then the whole of Westeros.

_The whole of her kingdom._

Barristan Selmy had once said that Samwell Tarly saved the Seven Kingdoms. 

And now he was her Master At Law, a man where the boy had once stood, and he no longer trembled or sweated or cringed. He stood with a straight back and he looked her in the eye. Daenerys always suspected it was watching his father executed that had done it for him in the end. His childhood nightmare finally banished, he could be the man he should have been all along.

And now he stood before her, his wife and his little son at his side, and he had a question.

"My son is of age now, your grace," he said, the little boy standing beside him and clinging to his hand, "And the time has come to name him."

"Already?" Daenerys smiled and held out her hands, beckoning the boy to her. He came happily and crawled onto her lap. He was a beautiful child, taking entirely after his mother in looks, but his mannerisms were all Sam’s and no one would ever suspect he was not the real father. The boy was used to being near his queen; Daenerys had taken Gilly as a lady-in-waiting and so the child was often at court, charming everyone he met. 

"We-" Sam hesitated and he took Gilly's hand, "We wanted to ask Ser Jorah something, your grace."

She felt rather than saw Jorah's surprise as he shifted at her side, silent and still up until now. He had rarely left her side since the day she had taken him back into the fold, crawling to her feet and so close to death she had no heart to do anything else. 

"Go ahead," Daenerys said curiously, smoothing the hair of the child and glancing at her lord commander. He was a frightful sight for those who did not know him - still tall and imposing, despite the new streaks of grey in his hair and beard, the demon brand twisting his face into a constant scowl. The boy in her arms hadn't been afraid of him, the first time they met; he'd sat beside Jorah on the steps and touched the brand gently.

"Ow," he'd said sympathetically.

"Ow," Jorah said softly in agreement, and when the boy sat on his lap to watch the queen and her ladies, Daenerys had glanced over slyly and seen the small smile that emerged from the scowl.

"Go ahead, Master Tarly," Jorah growled now, "What is your question?"

"We want to name our son, Jeor, after Lord Commander Mormont," Sam said quickly, "After the only real father figure I ever knew. We want your blessing."

A beat of silence, followed by another, and Daenerys turned slightly to see Jorah's throat working as he swallowed whatever lump had formed there. He glanced down at the boy, who was watching him curiously, and slowly nodded.

"He would have been honoured," he said gruffly, "And I am that you thought to ask."

Sam smiled widely, his relief radiating from him. He and Jorah had not had the easiest relationship, beginning as it did with Sam's deliverence of the news that the father he loved so much was dead. They were friendlier now, if it was possible to describe Jorah as friendly, and Daenerys suspected this move would seal their uneasy bond more securely.

She stood up and gave Jeor to Jorah, who took him in his arms easily and smiled softly. 

"Hello, Master Jeor," he said, "Jeor Tarly. A fine name."

Jeor furrowed his little brow and reached up, catching a tear on his fingers.

"Sad?" he asked, puzzled by the smile and the tear together. Jorah shook his head, and his whispered answer was so quiet Daenerys almost missed it entirely.

"Happy."

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Vana who puts up with my whining and reads my first drafts with no complaints :)


End file.
